Chapter 8
At last the time came for Christopher to leave Eden Abbey for London.
The coach ride was as tedious and uncomfortable as coach rides always were. Christopher wished he could pass the time reading, for there was little else to do, but if he so much as glanced at a piece of writing whilst in a moving carriage, his head became heavy and his middle queasy. The only thing to do was stare out the window when the sun was not too much in his eyes. Even some conversation would have been welcome during those dreary hours, but he had no conversational partner. Har-ding was riding with the heavy baggage in a separate cart. He had insisted on playing escort to the valuables, though Christopher had his doubts that his willowy valet would be much of a deterrent to any highwaymen who wished to help themselves to Christopher’s effects. Perhaps Har-ding was hiding some dashing proficiency with a sword or pistol, but Christopher doubted it.
There were other things to think about on the journey (like his impending marriage) but Christopher was content to confine himself to mere daydreams of Har-ding running through a host of ruffians, mostly shirtless. And sweat dappled. Har-ding, of course, not the ruffians.
After a day and a half of changing horses and eating at questionable roadside taverns, the coach finally rattled into London and took Christopher to his townhouse in Bloomsbury.
On the rare occasions that he came to London, Christopher found Bloomsbury perfectly suitable, slightly removed from the hubbub of Mayfair proper. The townhouse was modest when compared to the other city dwellings of the ton, host to a mere seven bedrooms and only two sitting rooms. It was decorated in a staid manner befitting a noble family: a few pieces of art on the walls, harmless still lifes in oils, one portrait of a great--grandfather that was quite ugly. The only real notable item in the entire house was the sweeping black shape of the grand piano, which took pride of place in the more formal and spacious of the two sitting rooms simply because there was nowhere else it could possibly fit. Christopher supposed he could have it shipped back to the manor, but he knew it would only sit unused in a room where no one ever touched its keys. Though he used to be able to play quite well in his youth, he didn’t dare attempt it these days lest someone note his proficiency. Winterthrope men were not given piano lessons, traditionally, only the women.
Christopher took off his pale kid gloves and laid them on the sideboard as he surveyed the entry hall. A maid came to collect them along with his hat and stick. Plinkton had engaged a few girls to ready the townhouse and see to its upkeep during his stay, and Christopher could find no fault in their work. The furniture was free of dust and the floors were polished to a sparkling shine, not only for Christopher’s sake but in preparation for its sale. Judging from its neat appearance, surely it would be only a matter of time before it attracted a buyer.
That was one hurdle, at least.
Christopher went to the window at the front of the house, twitching back the curtain and watching the endless stream of humanity going up and down the street. Still no sign of the baggage cart, but he suspected Har-ding wouldn’t arrive with it for another few hours.
He settled against the windowsill to watch the street. There were so many people here. At Eden Abbey, Christopher could go from one end of the week to the other without seeing another living soul apart from his few servants, but here, he could lay eyes on a hundred new faces all within the span of an hour: matrons with their bonnets perched on their heads, workmen carrying their heavy loads, children with shiny faces and sticky mouths. Here were people of every race and creed, a teeming city of thousands, humanity at its most manifold. Christopher sighed against the windowpane. Hadn’t some poet said it was possible to feel quite alone while being surrounded by a multitude?
Then Christopher’s gaze found a familiar face in the sea of strangers, and his heart gave a happy leap.
Shuffling down the lane in front of the townhouse was Horace Chesterfield, an old friend of Christopher’s from his Cambridge days. Christopher rapped his knuckles against the windowpane as Chester passed by, and as intended, his head whipped up at the noise. When he spotted Christopher in the window, his long face rearranged itself to accommodate his surprise.
“Winny!” he cried. “Lord Eden! When did you get into town?”
Christopher unlatched the window and lifted the sash so he could converse more easily. “Just arrived, dear fellow,” he said. “Will you come in and have a glass of something with me? I must have some brandy somewhere.”
Chester frowned with regret. “No time to chat, I’m afraid. I’m supposed to meet my father in—-” He slipped his timepiece from his waistcoat pocket and consulted it. “Well, ten minutes ago, actually,” he said with a mournful look. Now that he was not in motion, Christopher could note the changes in his old friend. There were the usual signs of aging, of course, a tempering into manhood, but more notable was the pall cast over his every word. In days gone by, Chester had always had a spring in his step. That spring was now missing entirely.
“Ah! I don’t want to keep you, then,” Christopher said, though he couldn’t hide his disappointment.
Cambridge had been a harrowing experience for Christopher, but Chester had been a balm to him during their time there. Although he relished the chance to attend those hallowed halls of learning, and Christopher’s studies in the classics put him in a near fit of rapture, there was the social aspect of his schooling to be considered. While many of the other Cambridge lads gallivanted along and forged bonds of intimate friendship—-some more intimate than others, though they always claimed to have grown out of such boyhood larks—-Christopher had held himself apart from that crowd. He would blame his decision to withdraw from the world even at that young age to his singular manhood, which he could not allow the other boys to discover, but in truth the entire enterprise did not appeal. He preferred to spend his school days reading Latin in the stacks, not stealing goats from the local farms whilst drunk.
Christopher was lucky, then, to find a kindred spirit in good old Chester. Horace Chesterfield was the fifth son in an old, old family—-titled, but not landed due to the quirks of history. He was an odd, romantic sort, and even as a boy he could spend days scribbling in some notebook, not lifting his head unless Christopher tossed a piece of toast in his direction. He applied himself to his classwork in the most middling of ways, but Christopher, being more friendly with him than anyone else at Cambridge on account of his toast deliveries, knew that Chester contained hidden depths. The man was a poet, or would be if his father would allow him to publish under his own name. Chesterfield the Elder—-Lord Gatt was his unfortunate title—-had a vendetta against poets and thought having one in the family would do them no favors. As it was, Chester languished in obscurity, printing his stanzas anonymously to no great effect. Christopher, who had an eye for poetry, thought Chester’s lines very good indeed. It was all fairly moody stuff: ravens and widows and the drumbeat of horse hooves. If he could only be allowed to tarnish the Chesterfield reputation the tiniest bit, Chester could have made a mint as a gentleman poet. Such verse, when flowing from an aristocratic pen, was all the rage.
“I wish you would detain me if only for a moment longer,” Chester called up to the window, misery suffusing his every word. “Anything to delay this luncheon. Papa is no doubt in a mood to harangue me about finding a job in a clerk’s office. Or joining the navy.” He screwed up his face in disgust, much to the consternation of an older woman passing by. Christopher thought it likely that her son was on board some ship at that very moment, poor sod.
“Well, we must find time to catch up while I’m in London,” he said.
Chester seemed to try to summon some enthusiasm for the notion. “If my father lets me live past this afternoon. Are you coming to the Leftmores’ ball this Saturday?”
“I don’t know the Leftmores,” Christopher reminded him. He knew of them, but had never made their acquaintance. “I don’t know anyone, you’ll recall.” His friend was sometimes a bit forgetful, as most poets are.
“Everyone knows the Leftmores,” Chester insisted. “I have a cousin who’s just now engaged to one of their nephews; I’ll drop Mrs. Leftmore a note later today and make certain you’re invited.”
“Oh.” Christopher chewed at his bottom lip. He’d thought that angling an invitation to some of the Season’s most lavish events would be more difficult. Although he knew he needed to attend parties if he was to find a wife, he’d had an idea that it would take more time than this. Now it seemed he did not have a moment to steel himself. A week would have been welcome, or a month. Or a lifetime. Still, he couldn’t be ungrateful for his friend’s efforts. “I’m in your debt, Chester. Thank you.”
“It’s nothing!” He gave his watch another sorrowful glance. “I’d best be going. I will see you at the ball, all right? Good afternoon!”
And with that, he allowed himself to be swept up in the tide of the crowd.
Christopher reluctantly ducked back inside and shut the window. He stood there, drumming his fingers on the windowsill, and thought. It was a Tuesday, which meant he had a few days to prepare himself for the ball. He would have to send word to his tailor. Christopher owned a lavish wardrobe, but the one thing it lacked was modish formal wear, as he never attended events that required it. That would have to change.
“Shall I prepare a bath for you, my lord?” asked a maid who materialized from the ether for the sole purpose of giving Christopher a terrible fright.
Once he’d recovered his wits, he realized a bath would be just the thing. “Yes, please. I -really should get out of these traveling clothes.” He felt coated in dust from the road, but worse than that, his trousers, while excellent country wear, were all wrong for strolling through the city. He was glad he’d had the foresight to pack a more genteel ensemble in his traveling case along with a few necessary odds and ends, like his linen bandages. He could bathe and change and turn into the presentable young city--dwelling master before Har-ding even arrived.
He would also have to find a suitable hiding spot for said bandages, as he didn’t have any armoires with secret compartments in the London residence. Beneath the mattress was one option, he supposed.
After he was made clean and orderly, Christopher conducted a few necessary errands. He sent a boy with a note to the Brothers Charbonneau in Savile Row to apprise them of the matter of his formal dress. Once that was accomplished, it was time for his appointment at Cloy the carriage trip has left me with little appetite.”
“Very good, my lord,” Har-ding called to his retreating back, sounding more smug than he had any right to be.